


Humming Bird

by simplemelodies



Series: A Bad Love Like This [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Teenlock, i don't know how to tag so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplemelodies/pseuds/simplemelodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is about to embark on another summer with his mother to the vacation cabin of one John Hamish Watson. These are his troubles in the nights before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humming Bird

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second in a series of (out-of-order) stories involving the summers between John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes's years seven through twelve. Please forgive any mistakes, for I am not from the UK and therefore I am absolutely horrid at the customs. Thank you to Lucy (pawtal on tumblr, and Pawtal on AO3) for bearing with me and teaching as much as she can, and for inspiring this little project. You're forever a little shit, but who cares. Also, for Tirzah (gingercult on tumblr and shippingjohnlock on AO3 for the constant encouragement. I couldn't ask for a better best friend.   
> I really do wish you enjoy this little piece.   
> C.J.

Beginning of Summer 2012

John stared out of the window of the train. Father had decided to take the traditional route, given that it was easier and only a little cheaper. He fussed with the hem of his shirt and, when he found a hole peeking through the fabric, he slipped his finger inside and worried at it until it was twice as large.

Jonathan gave him a disapproving glance. “Please stop, John. That’s not going to help.” But John couldn’t stop, because it distracted him from the acid that churned in his stomach and the sand that coated the back of his throat and the chasm in his gut that seemed a mile deep.

And yet he tried to rein his thoughts in, but they were too wild. So as he watched the trees pass by in solemn rows, his mind wandered; it raged and screamed and filled his head with all the empty promises he’d given to himself in the past ten months.

_Fingers intertwined on bed sheets, noses bumped and skin whispered of quiet mornings and heated embraces. John reached up to stroke his lover’s hair, getting his fingers tangled in the damp curls and letting out a chuckle at the hiss of pain. Desire like fire burned through his heart, not just to know this man physically—but to connect with him on a level that only lovers could. John wanted not only to kiss the pale skin into a nice red blush, but to stroke the heart of the man in front of him. He wanted to pierce through the shell that protected both their beings and demolish the feeling of dread every time he whispered—._

John stole himself from thinking about it too much, for they were ten minutes from the train station and there was an uncomfortable bulge in John’s trousers. He cleared his throat slightly and shifted to conceal his lap, staring again at the passing buildings that had seemed to magically come into view.

“John, you should be getting ready. Do change your shirt. I would not like to arrive with you looking—well. Just please put on something presentable.” Jonathan Watson looked down at his son and straightened his shirt.

It wasn’t really like him to be this proper, John thought. Normally, he would have been joking and making assumptions about the fellows across the aisle. Today, however, he seemed to be making an effort to be a right gentleman. Odd, John thought, but wasn’t too worried about it. Father would be Father.

Suddenly, the train’s wheels were shrieking and John was being prodded in the side by his father. “I told you, John.” But it was too late and people where jostling to get to the front of the car and John was just too small to push his way through. He groaned at the prospect of having to wait, but he wasn’t too disappointed—whatever it took to stay away from that godforsaken cabin for just a few more moments.

The teenager didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to face the features he’d been haunted by all year.

X

Sherlock struggled against his racing thoughts, the ones that threatened to rip his mind in two. He lay in bed, tossing his head about in such a way that spread his curls across the pillow. His face was drenched in sweat, beads of liquid pooling in the hollow of his throat like a small pond. The dark-haired boy clenched his eyes shut tight, daring the practically non-existent light to pierce through.

He calmed enough to take a breath, to gather his thoughts, to force them away. It had worked most times, to just lock away each image as it presented itself in his mind, until there was nothing left but actual memories.

But sometimes it did not work, and Sherlock knew this would be one of those times. His mind closed itself off, not letting in anything other than what it wanted. And it _wanted_.

 _Sherlock ran his fingers through course blonde hair, tangled his tongue with the young lad lying with him. Sometimes he imagined that he could still hear the laughter, the way_ he _would say Sherlock’s name. It was like a caress—one that was not meant to be. He had to bite his tongue to keep from moving, from indulging in what his body so eagerly wanted._

_Moans and whispers ran together like liquid to encase the two bodies. Tan against pale, dark against light; nothing could have been more different, or more beautiful._

The teen groaned at the thought, at the imaginary caress, at the ghost of skin brushing against his own. He had to stop this, stop this, _stop this_ , or he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

And then an evil part of him, a very dark, sadistic piece of his soul, mimicked his friend’s voice almost perfectly.

_“Sherlock…”the other boy whispered against pale skin, trailing his lips across flesh like soft rain._

And he could not take any more, could not bear the tugging that had settled deep in his gut, could not ignore the tent in his pajamas. So with a sigh he un-tucked the comforter from around him and slid his fingers under the band of his pants. A groan escaped him, echoing through the walls of his mind like a curse.

 _This would be a long night_.

X

And a long night it was, for when Sherlock awoke the next morning, he’d had barely three hours’ sleep and a dull ache had built itself at the base of his skull. He grunted and squinted at the sunlight pouring in from the open curtains. Sundays were never his favourite.

“Sherlock, dear,” his mother chimed in, “come downstairs. We’re leaving at noon.” With resigned obedience, Sherlock tossed back the blankets and padded to his wardrobe, his long legs reaching it rather quickly. “I do not think you want to be late.”

There was a smile in Cindy’s voice that Sherlock recognized immediately, and it made him grin as well. Dressed in black jeans and a white t-shirt, he looked in the mirror. If he squinted just right and tilted his head to the side, the light bounced off his dark curls and created the illusion of a halo around his own head. But it was just that—an illusion. Sherlock Holmes was anything but an angel.

And then Sherlock was alone with his thoughts, ones that he didn’t necessarily need, or want, or desired. Except, a part of him did, and that part reared its ugly head while the poor teenager tried to force it away. He could not focus, could not do anything at all with the voice in his head screaming;

_You’ll never make it. Not at this rate, with this much frustration._

But Sherlock could always hope.

_You’ll mess it all up, just as you always do._

And the teenager wanted to scream. But no.

 _It’s inevitable_.

“Leave me alone,” he growled to the walls, to no one, to himself. The air gripped at him like a tight blanket, like a lifejacket—but it did nothing to bring him to safety. He was stuck out at sea in this little rowboat of a thing, desperate to find some kind of shore.

Sherlock could not find his hairbrush and his suitcase was overfull and his mother was calling him again for the cab and this was going to be the worst summer yet.


End file.
